


Strained

by frooley



Category: The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, uh i dont know how to tag this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 19:31:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13488282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frooley/pseuds/frooley
Summary: After five years, to date, Nick gets the surprise of his lifetime.





	Strained

**Author's Note:**

> I know that other people have done this but, I've had an idea in my mind for a while and I finally just got to writing it out.
> 
> hope you like it though!

_ The leaves,  _

_ They remind me of how easy a life could be brought into this world and taken away just as fast. _

_ So young, full of life, only to be pulled and picked at; destroyed. _

_ Gradually, we grow older, we start to grow frail, brittle to the touch. We mean to be strong, you know, to make sure that this can’t be the end, show others to stay strong.  _

_ Yet, once again, we’re pulled at and picked, this time stomped up into little, indistinguishable pieces.  _

 

_ It sucks. _

* * *

 

I can’t bring myself to look at him in the eyes anymore, in photos I mean.

The memories we shared would always rush to the insides of my tired eyelids. 5 years tomorrow, it didn’t feel real.

 

It never felt real, after that day. Before that, we were young, living on the tips of our toes; excited about the future, even if it was private one, due the love we carried. 

 

Everything was bright, and yellow with him. Without, although, it was like the yellow was covered in thin layers of black, growing darker each day, hour, minute, second. I was just within the mess he left behind him, and without a hand to help.

New York felt like a knife in my back for me. My once shining opportunity of a city, crushed by the hands of someone who didn’t deserve them.

 

I moved back to Minnesota shortly after Wolfsheim cleared the place and told me that it wouldn’t be available to the public for god knows how long. My ma and pa were happy to have me back at least, but I didn’t want to be there. Home made me sick, as ironic as it is.

 

I didn’t know where a wanted to be physically, but mentally I was with Gatsby, and his ideal American dream. The one were you could live the way you wanted, with who you wanted. Not the picket fence house and dolled up wife with just as dolled up kids. Although he did believe in that dream once, he found it fruitless because of his lack of interest in women. He once told me he had gotten scared that he never found a woman attractive enough, physically and personally, to date, none the less marry, and locked himself in his room for 2 days straight. He told me it was supposed to be funny, but as he thought it about it, he realised it was more corrupt than anything. He was scared because that what he was taught, and he couldn’t follow up with it. 

 

Sleep had become just as boring, if you could say that, as watching paint dry. It was useless. My ma has become worried, I can tell by her probing and constant askings about if I wanted sleep medicine. Of course, I declined, but I wish now more than ever to just sleep, relax my eyes.

 

I checked the time on the old clock my grandfather had given me; 2:34. In the afternoon, or in the morning?

One check of the sky outside told me it was morning time, and officially, was now the anniversary. 

 

I sighed, and grabbed a book off my shelf. It was an old one that hadn’t been read for a while, I guessed due to the layer of dust that covered it. A poem book by a unreadable author. I opened to a page, and read the stanza to myself.

 

_ Warmth; _

_ It comes in many forms. _

_ And at many times. _

 

Ha. I closed the book as a second thought, and just as I did, there was a knock at my door.

 

“Nick, honey, can come out here?” It was mother, she sounded hesitant, but happy.

 

I made my way to door, opening it and before I could even ask why, she grabbed my arm and told to close my eyes. 

 

“I know we couldn’t be there for you on your recent birthday, but we hope this makes up for it.” She explains as we walk. 

After a minute, we stop, and she tells me I can open my eyes. 

And there before me was, this little white puff of a dog, wiggling with excitement. 

 

Yet, before I could even greet the ball of energy, it was picked up, and before I knew who it was, all I heard was,

 

“Happy belated birthday, Oldsport.”


End file.
